Substitutes
by Flaignhan
Summary: She doesn't acknowledge him, but her green eyes stare into his, and he can tell that she doesn't recognise him, not at all, not even a fraction. There is no hint of doubt in her gaze, just the certainty that the man standing before her is nothing to her. It almost hurts him.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So this sort of happened by accident. Little bit different to normal. Spoilers for The Dark World, The Winter Soldier, and some season 2 of Agents of Shield. Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think!

* * *

**Substitutes**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He wakes in a cold sweat. His heart is pumping rapidly in his chest, blood pounding in his ears, his lungs heaving in sharp, shallow breaths. He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, the torch brackets illuminating on his entry. With shaking hands, he turns on the cold tap, icy water gushing from it, and he splashes it over his face. Droplets speckle his chest, and he's not sure if the drips running down the side of his neck are sweat or water. He throws more and more water onto his face, until he is shaking from the cold, and then, eventually, with numb hands, turns off the tap, and stares at his reflection in the ornately framed mirror that hangs over the sink.

The dark circles under his eyes are prominent, and combined with the sharp lines of his cheekbones, he looks more skeletal than ever. It doesn't matter though, because he can hide it. No one need ever know that he wakes every night, his heart racing, his mind filled with poisonous wisps of memories and nightmares. He raises his index finger and traces the faint line that runs alongside his temple. It will go, eventually, he knows that, but he grows impatient. Everything is fine now, everything is how it ought to be, and yet he still bears the scars of his fall, only ever able to hide them, never shake them off entirely.

He pulls a towel from the rail and presses the soft, fluffy cotton to his face. He breathes in deeply, in and out, in and out, and then pats his neck and shoulders dry, before tossing the towel into the basket in the corner of the room, his heart now beating at a steady, more acceptable rate. He leaves the bathroom and closes the door quietly behind him, then squints in the dark as he makes his way back over to his bed. He crosses the room without incident, and climbs onto the mattress, reaching over to his bedside cabinet and lighting the candle that sits in a hefty holder carved from solid gold. With the small flame illuminating the darkness, lifting the veil just that little bit, he makes himself comfortable, pulling his blankets up around his shoulders. He wishes he could have some music, just something to drown out he silence. The dark he can master, but the silence always gets to him, and if his head is not plagued by the deep, calm voice he has come to recognise as cruelty itself, then it is swimming in memories of soft lullabies from his childhood.

Neither of these things coax him into slumber.

He stares at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the lines of the intricately carved patterns in the stone, and eventually, after what feels like a lifetime of waiting, he hears the distant crow of a cockerel. He gets out of bed and heads for the bathroom once more, but when he enters this time, the room is light enough that the torches need not illuminate. The dawn sky sends just enough light through the tall, arched windows, and he turns the bath taps on.

He wanders over to the window, staring out across the kingdom, his eyes itching with tiredness. In the distance he spots a gaggle of workers, treading the path to the mill that sits proudly on a hill a mile or so ahead of them. Perhaps he's in the wrong job. He certainly keeps the same hours as them, would he not be better off among them?

He turns away from the window and strips off his pyjama trousers, kicking them to one side before he steps down into the sunken stone bath. He lets the taps run for a few more minutes, until the water is dangerously close to floor level, then stretches out one of his legs, turning off the taps with his big toe. He closes his eyes and breathes in the steam, his arms resting comfortably on the edge of the bath. He can feel the heat rising in his neck and face, the sweat beading on his brow, and although the scorching water sears his skin, he does not relent. He does not reach out his big toe and turn the cold tap on, not even a little to ease the sharpness.

Eventually he will burn away his outer layer and be left with new flesh, un-maimed, unsullied, and all his own.

_Fire is cleansing, is it not, my _prince_?_

He wakes with a start, his heart rapid, and in the commotion he manages to splash a good few gallons of water over the edge of the bath, flooding the floor tiles. He takes a deep breath, reacquainting himself with his surroundings, and it's not until a good minute has passed that he realises that the sky outside is now bright and clear, and the water of his bath is lukewarm.

With a growl of impatience he rips the plug from the bottom of the bath and climbs out, cladding himself in a fluffy towel and trying not to slip over on the slick floor tiles. He retreats into his bedroom and finds his clothes, hanging up for him by his dressing screen. He towels himself down quickly and pulls them on, not entirely sure what time it is. If he's late for breakfast, Sif will start asking questions again, and if there is one thing he cannot abide first thing in the morning, nor at any time of day, it is her questions.

He takes a look at himself in the mirror before he leaves, and watches as his face morphs from the sunken, sleep deprived, skull to which only he is accustomed, and into the fuller, more coloured, healthier visage of a king.

* * *

"Vanaheim has invited you to join them in a feast next month," Sif says, placing a heavy parchment invitation on the table in front of him.

"Why?" Loki asks, before she can continue reeling off the morning's news. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she pauses, her mouth ajar, ready to tell him the next thing on her list, but then she exhales softly, her shoulders slumping.

"The king's eldest daughter is of age. I think he would like to introduce you to her." Sif doesn't bother to hide her disapproval of the idea, her lips pursed as she awaits Loki's response.

"Not interested," Loki replies, waving his hand dismissively.

"It would be rude to ref- "

"If he wants his eldest daughter to marry _me_, after I have been on the throne for such a minute amount of time, after I was only just _grudgingly_ pardoned by Odin shortly before his death, if he wants to send his eldest daughter to _me_, after all the things I've done, after all the other realms _think_ they know about me, then he can't like her very much."

"So?" Sif asks. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't go and at least _try_ to - "

"If he wants rid of her then I certainly won't allow him to palm her off onto me. She must be _ghastly_."

"But you can't _know that_," Sif argues. She collapses into the chair opposite him, her arms resting on the table. "He might just want her to marry the _king of Asgard_. That's not a terrible fate for a daughter."

Loki frowns at her, then shakes his head. "No. Either he's eager to get rid of her or he doesn't give a damn about her. Either way, I'm not interested in a _girl_ that's only just come of _age_."

Sif sighs and slumps down in her seat. "You should go to the feast," she tells him. "And when you do, do not be _rude_ about his daughter. Politely decline the offer if he brings it up, but do _not_ burn bridges."

"And what excuse am I to offer him? I'm not betrothed to another, so what do I say? The thought of marrying your child repulses me? I'm suspicious of your attempts to send her off to another realm at the first opportunity? What?"

"You don't say any of those things," Sif says exasperatedly. "You tell him you consider yourself married to your realm, that with all the time and effort you spend making sure the kingdom is as it should be, you would never have a second to spare for his _charming _daughter, and it would be selfish of you to condemn her to a life of loneliness and misery."

Loki smirks, unable to keep his amusement at bay. Since his ascension to the throne, Sif has gradually learned to accept him. She argued at first, argued fiercely, before heading straight to Midgard to tell Thor of yet another one of Loki's deceptions. Annoyingly, it had been Thor's blessing that had settled the whispers, that had given the kingdom that final push it had needed in order to fully, truly, accept Loki as its king. But, the bumpy start having progressed into a smooth, level road, Sif now treats him like she used to, with the occasional pointed 'my liege' thrown in whenever she particularly disagrees with him.

Though he will never admit it aloud, the days are easy because of Sif, because of the noise and space she takes up, because of her inability to let go of a thousand years of treating him like a little brother. And, he suspects, because now that Thor is well and truly gone from Asgard, she no longer has to deal with the pressure of the entire kingdom expecting her to become their queen. Though he knows that her heart still aches from time to time, Loki cannot deny that he prefers the Sif who has committed treason, who has had her strings loosened, and who is prepared to overlook his crimes, providing he doesn't step out of line by an inch, going forward.

"And what if he asks about heirs?" Loki asks. He takes his goblet and raises it to his lips, sipping the water before replacing it on the table. "What then?"

Sif's eyebrows raise a fraction on her forehead while she thinks, and then she lets out a heavy sigh. "Tell him that Thor will produce a son eventually, that you will name your nephew your heir, and he will ascend upon your passing." She shrugs and looks away, chewing on her lower lip, and Loki rolls his eyes, straightens up in his chair then fixes her with a serious gaze.

"The way I see it," he says, and at this she turns back to face him, her expression strong and defiant. "You have two options. Either you can wait around for eighty, perhaps a hundred years, and by that time the lovely Jane will be dead and gone - "

Sif opens her mouth to argue, her eyebrows drawn together in a disapproving frown, but Loki holds up a finger, silencing her.

"She _will_, Sif. She _will_. I do not wish it upon her, but that is neither here nor there because it _will_ happen. She will grow old and grey and fade into nothingness, and Thor will return here," at this he pulls a face of disgust, which only earns him a stonier look from Sif, "heartbroken. And you will still be young and beautiful, and you will be there to comfort him in his hour of need."

Sif opens her mouth to speak again but Loki cuts across her before she can get a single word out.

"_Or_," he says pointedly, his finger still raised in order to hold off her arguments. "You can accept that he's oaf - "

"An oaf whose life you nearly _died_ saving."

"And you can start respecting yourself, because you should never _ever_ settle for being anybody's second choice, much less their last resort. Don't ever be second best."

Sif blinks and sits back in her chair, gazing at him thoughtfully. For a moment, he thinks she is about to thank him for his infinite pearls of wisdom, for his kind and sage advice, for putting aside his kingly duties in order to ease the ache in her heart.

"You'll forgive me if I take your advice with a pinch of salt," she says coolly. "You are, after all, the second son who, in a bid to prove himself, attempted to destroy…_two _realms, at last count?"

Loki bristles, his eyes narrowing. Sif meets his gaze without fear, for she knows (and it was foolish of him to let her find out) that he will never punish her for speaking out of turn, no matter how low a blow she deals him. She is far too important to the smooth running of the kingdom for him to ever consider punishing her, and he hates the idea that she uses that knowledge to her constant advantage.

"One son is currently slumming it on Midgard with his mortal wench," Loki tells her icily. "The other son has the throne, and a young, supple princess ready for the taking, if he so chooses. Tell me again who is second best? Would you like me to draw you a diagram?"

Sif raises an eyebrow, then continues on as though they had not been substantially sidetracked. "The sickness in the valley has spread, and nearly all work has stopped. None of them are able to pay their taxes. What do you want to do about it?"

"Send the healers down," Loki says with a bored wave of his hand. He sinks down in his chair now they're back to the tedious business of taxes and _people_. "The sooner they're well, the sooner they'll be working again. And the sooner they're working again, the sooner they'll be able to pay their taxes."

"Very well," Sif says. "And what of this month's taxes? Shall we backdate them, allow them to pay double next month?"

Loki frowns. "How many affected?"

"Two dozen taxpayers," Sif tells him. "But around fifty, altogether."

"Then forget it," he says with a sigh. "It's a pittance. But make sure they know how generous their good king has been to them."

"I'll tell them not to worry," Sif retorts, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. "Onto the _last_ matter however…"

Loki groans and stares up at the ceiling, his arms folded across his stomach. Had he known that ruling was so dull he would have sought other prizes instead. But here he is discussing _valley dwellers_ and _taxes_ and _princesses_ who probably aren't old enough to buckle their own boots. Some days he wishes for war, just so he has something to consider, just so there is a sense of urgency and value to his decision making. But then he recalls the day that the dark elves came, and with an icy jolt he is reminded that battle does not ease the boredom, nor does it make the most of its king. Battle destroys, and battle ruins, and battle is not as interesting as the stories make out.

"Have _you_ seen the healers yet?"

Loki scowls. "I don't need to see the healers."

"The sleeping solution will ease your nerves, it will not leave you vulnerable," Sif tells him, her voice low so that the guards stationed at the main doors cannot hear them. "You would be well rested, should you take it."

"I'm _fine_," Loki says through gritted teeth. "And you forget your standing." He pushes himself out of his chair and heads towards the doors.

"You mean I'm not allowed to be concerned for my king's wellbeing?" Sif asks, turning in her seat to face him.

Loki opens his mouth to respond, but a voice speaks from behind him that silences any words that would have fallen from his lips.

"I thought that was my job?"

A heavy hand lands on Loki's shoulder, giving him a rough squeeze, before Loki is forcibly turned around and pulled into a brief, but nevertheless deeply unpleasant, hug.

"Brother," Thor says warmly as he releases him. Loki pulls away from him and steps back, brushing down his sleeves.

"What do you want?" Loki demands, displeased that Thor has deigned to show up now, despite his promise that he will remain almost exclusively on Midgard, with Jane.

"I came to see my brother," Thor says brightly, his smile wide. He raises a hand in greeting at Sif, which she returns with a soft smile. "There's no crime in that, is there?"

"Not _yet_," Loki retorts. "Though the law _could_ change."

Thor ignores him and steps past him, heading towards Sif. "Why are you concerned for him?" he asks, his brow furrowed. "What ails him?"

Loki sends a venomous glare towards her, and she blinks before allowing an easy, reassuring smile to form on her lips.

"He's fine," she says, meeting Thor's gaze without hesitation. "I was just concerned because there has been illness in the valley and he was there not long ago."

"But you're well?" Thor asks, returning his attention to Loki. "You're quite well?"

"_Yes_," Loki answers, his teeth gritted, patience wearing thin. Between the two of them, Sif and Thor make it very easy for him to wish he were miles away, and he thanks the stars for Jane Foster. Had she not barrelled into their lives, Sif and Thor might well be married, might well be King and Queen of Asgard, and then where would he be? The prince who has to put up with constant nosiness and teasing. No, he is very grateful for Jane Foster.

"Tell me what you want and go _away_," Loki says snippily. His weariness is catching up with him, and he hopes to be able to catch a couple of hours rest while Sif busies herself responding to the king of Vanaheim and dealing with the valley dwellers.

"I - " Thor falters, then takes a few slow steps back towards Loki, his hands clasped in front of him, his bright façade dropping in a heartbeat. "Will you grant me this request, if I promise to leave for Midgard immediately?"

Loki considers him for a moment. There are faint shadows under his eyes, nothing compared to the ones that Loki is hiding, but noticeable all the same. His blue eyes have lost their usual sense of merriment, are glazed with tiredness and moving rapidly with anxiety.

"Is it Jane?" Loki asks, and he glances up to Sif to see her brow crease in concern.

"Jane's fine," Thor replies, without hesitation. Loki keeps his eyes on Sif, and when she notices his gaze, she narrows her eyes and looks away.

"Then what is it? I can't promise you something without first knowing what it is."

"It's only a very small favour, Brother," Thor says earnestly, stepping even closer to Loki, until there is just a couple of yards between them. Loki huffs at the slowly shrinking space between them, then looks up at Thor, his forehead lined with worry, his face bristling with stubble from days without care.

"Very well," Loki says exasperatedly. Whatever it is, he knows that Thor is too sickeningly decent to try and trick him into handing over the throne or something equally stupid. He may not know what it is that Thor wants, but he knows that he wants Thor gone, and the sooner he agrees to his request, the sooner he can be rid of him and his large, blundering form.

"On your life?" Thor asks, and Loki forces down childhood memories of stupid games, interrogations, and silly, unimportant promises.

"On my life," agrees Loki, his suspicion piquing. "Now what is it?"

"I need your help," Thor says simply.

Loki's stomach drops. Help is an incredibly broad thing. Help can range from hauling him out of the mud when he has fallen over, but can also include smuggling him out of Asgard via a precarious and tricky back alley bifrost.

"If I recall correctly," Loki says, his eyes narrowed. "The last time I helped you, I ended up with a sword rammed through my gut. You'll forgive me if I don't deem this a _small_ favour."

He turns, ready to leave, but then there is the sound of heavy footsteps, and a large hand grips him firmly by the shoulder, stopping him and turning him around.

"It's not dangerous," Thor tells him, his blue eyes boring into Loki's own. "I swear to you that no harm will come to you. We…" He lets out a heavy sigh and looks towards the ceiling. When he returns his gaze to Loki, his eyes are over bright. "We don't know what to do."

"Who's _we_?"

"SHIELD," Thor murmurs, and he must know it is a deal breaker, because he tightens his grip on Loki's shoulder and opens his mouth, about to continue speaking, presumably so Loki has no chance to argue with him.

"Forget it," Loki says, pushing Thor's hand away. "Anything to do with _SHIELD_ does _not_ guarantee my safety."

Loki turns once more and heads to the doors, but at Thor's next words, he halts immediately, his legs anchoring to the ground.

"It's Agent Romanov," Thor says. "She's been compromised."

"Say that again?"

"Agent Romanov has been compromised."

Loki turns, his lips curving into a smile. "That's…" His mind searches for the right word, until at last he finds one, simple, and perfect. "That's _interesting._"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Chapter two here for your enjoyment! Not sure when I'll be able to post the next one, hopefully by the weekend. Should also be an update for the Interloper by then as well. =]

* * *

**Substitutes **

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"And you're certain they won't try and kill me?"

"They're desperate," Thor tells him as they stride down the corridors. "They've agreed to a truce, providing you help her."

Loki says nothing, his curiosity running at an all time high. For Romanov, that stone cold assassin, that level headed master of manipulation, for her to be compromised must have taken some doing. She is not the type to break easily, he remembers that much of her. He wonders how they could have possibly done it, without the aid of magic. She would not break under pain, she is far too stubborn for that, and yet she has, apparently, been tampered with beyond recognition. He doesn't waste his time considering _who_ might be the culprit - a woman such as her has enemies by the score, and it is pointless trying to place blame.

At last they reach a large open room, and there are half a dozen guards in familiar black uniforms, armed with semi-automatic weapons, their faces set in stony expressions as they watch him cross the room. Loki's lips twitch into a brief smirk as he approaches the small crowd of people, gathered around a large upright metal stand. Through the gaps between their shoulders he catches a glimpse of crimson locks, and he walks more quickly, Thor hurrying alongside him. At the sound of their footsteps, the people turn around, and the first person Loki notices is the soldier, his chiselled jaw sporting a graze, his right arm supported by a sling. His expression is stern as Loki approaches, but he ignores it, his eyes lingering on Coulson who is, rather puzzlingly, looking as though he is in perfect health.

Barton stands protectively next to Romanov, his arms folded, his brow set in a scowl as he watches Loki's every move. He is, plainly, unhappy about being forced to accept Loki's aid, and looks to be biting down on his tongue to keep him from saying anything he might regret.

Romanov is strapped to the stand, her wrists and ankles bound by thick metal bands, while another strip keeps her shoulders secured fast against the surface. She watches him with curious eyes and a blank expression, and he can tell, even from one glance, that there is something missing from her. It's as though she has been stripped out, reduced to a simple form, and put clumsily back together again. This is no mind control however, this is not something that can be fixed with a hefty blow to the head. She has been changed from the inside out. No influence lingers over her, no voice whispers in her ear, she is in control of herself, and yet she is not herself.

"What happened?" he asks, peering at her, taking in the cuts and bruises that litter her body.

"She came here," Coulson says mildly, though his expression is cold and judgemental. "Tried to kill us."

Loki turns towards the Captain and lets his eyes drop his injured arm. The Captain skews his lips and looks down at it as well. "It took four of us to subdue her," he says, and he sounds surprised as he says it, as though the truth has not quite sunken in yet.

"Which four?" Loki asks, looking around the group. There are several faces he doesn't recognise - a tall black man with a shaved head, a woman with dark hair and an unreadable expression, and three youngsters, one with large eyes and a defiant expression, and the other two, one male, one female, who look as though they have never picked a fight in their lives.

"Me," Barton says, his voice strained with the pressure of remaining cordial. "Cap, Agent May," he gestures to the woman with dark hair, who raises her eyebrows by way of an introduction, "and Agent Triplett." Agent Triplett raises a hand, signifying himself, and Loki turns back to Thor.

"You mean you _didn't_ help?" Loki asks him, feigning surprise. "How heartless of you, Brother!"

"They called me _after_ they had contained her," Thor says, his measured tone betraying his thinning patience.

Loki shrugs him off and turns back to the Captain. "She did that?" he questions, nodding towards the Captain's injured arm. "She broke the super soldier's arm?"

"Yeah," the Captain replies with a heavy sigh. "She did."

"Well that doesn't make sense," Loki says, returning his attention to Romanov. He knows how competent she is, has seen it first hand, but there is no way that it would take three combat trained SHIELD agents _and_ a super soldier to restrain her. There's no way that could be possible. He looks at her arms, grazed and bruised from the scuffle, but otherwise unremarkable, her hands, dirty and scratched, but surely not capable of breaking the dense bones of a science experiment.

"She's normally a pretty even match for me," Barton says quietly, his thought clearly on the same path as Loki's. At this, Agent May clears her throat, and Barton rolls his eyes. "_Broadly speaking_," he says, pointedly. "But when she came in here she was like… a _machine_."

Loki frowns and takes a step closer to her, her eyes fixed on his, staring him down defiantly. "Doesn't she speak?"

"We don't think she understands us at _all_," the Captain replies, his expression creased with worry. "We think she only speaks Russian but we haven't managed to get a translator yet. She won't respond to the translation software, so we might have better luck with a person."

"Russian?" Loki repeats under his breath. "But she said she wasn't Russian anymore…" He reaches out a hand to touch her chin, tilting her face gently to one side so that he can get a good look at her, but before he can react, she jerks her head with lightning fast speed, her teeth clamping down on his thumb like a vice. He yells out, and Thor rushes forward, but the closer he gets, the harder she bites, her teeth piercing the skin, Loki's blood flowing into her mouth and down her chin. Loki grits his teeth, suppressing his desire to yell in pain, and then digs the tip of his thumb into the soft, fleshy well beneath her tongue. It only takes a few moments and an increase in pressure for her to relent and release her jaw, allowing Loki to withdraw his thumb quickly, closing his other hand around it to try and stem the blood flow.

"Don't touch," Barton says, and Loki suspects that there is a faint sense of pride in his voice, that despite the very obvious problems with Romanov, he is convinced that this is proof that she is still trapped somewhere within that head, and it will only take a few magic words to set her free.

"Let me see," says the young girl, her hands protected by bright blue surgical gloves, a large wad of cotton wool clamped between her fingers as she prises Loki's hand away from his thumb. He is too surprised to argue with her, and she holds onto his thumb tightly moving his arm so that his thumb is level with her eyes, the cotton wool soaking up the stream of blood.

"Simmons," Coulson says, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "You know who this is, right?"

"Yes sir," she says pleasantly, lifting away the cotton wool to check on the wound. She shakes her head, her expression of disapproval becoming more pronounced. "This might need some stitches," she tells Loki quietly. "It's rather deep."

"Simmons, this is the same guy that stabbed me in the back, _literally_."

At this, Simmons' sculpted eyebrows rise high on her forehead, her mouth opening a little. She plainly had not considered that fact when she had rushed to Loki's aid, and immediately she grabs Loki's spare hand, wraps his fingers around his injured thumb and the blood soaked cotton wool, and removes her hands from him entirely.

"Sorry sir," she says, peeling off her gloves, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment. She looks up at Loki again, her eyes a little brighter than they had been previously. "No antiseptic for _you_," she says, and despite the quaver in her voice there is a distinct hint of triumph to her tone. "Although," she continues, looking down at the floor once more, avoiding not just Loki's gaze, but everybody's. "There _is_ a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages in the first aid kit on the table, should you feel you require them." She has a breathy, sing song sort of voice and Loki frowns, turning to look at Coulson for an explanation.

"She's the closest thing we have to a doctor around here," he says with a shrug. "And she doesn't hold a grudge like I do."

"Of course," Loki says, peeling away the bloodied cotton wool and inspecting his thumb. Romanov has managed to pierce several layers of skin, and Loki closes his own mouth around the wound, sucking on it briefly to clean it as best he can.

"Oh no, please don't…" Simmons says exasperatedly. "The antiseptic is just over _there_." She gestures towards the first aid kit, her hands now clad in a clean pair of gloves. In her hand is a small disposable cardboard bowl, a collection of white tissues, and a bottle of water. She steps in front of Loki, passing the bowl and tissues to Agent Barton, who takes them without argument. Then, looking Romanov dead in the eyes, she unscrews the bottle of water and takes a sip. Romanov's face relaxes a fraction, though her lips are bloody, her chin and neck stained with scarlet. When Simmons raises the bottle to Romanov's lips, Loki half expects her to snap at the young girl, but something in her sickeningly kind demeanour must translate despite the language barrier, and Romanov accepts the water without complaint. Simmons reaches out for the bowl from Barton and presents it to Romanov, who spits a pink mixture of blood and water into it, spittle hanging from her lower lip. Simmons raises the bottle again, and Romanov accepts more, drinking then spitting. They repeat the process a few more times, before Romanov drinks deeply, emptying the bottle entirely. Then, with Barton holding the empty bottle and the half full bowl, Simmons takes the tissues and carefully wipes Romanov's mouth, her delicate touch accepted by Romanov with grudging consent.

"Why doesn't she bite you?" Loki asks, unable to keep his offence at bay.

"Because I'm _helping her_," Simmons says obviously. "You were looking at her like she's a gorilla in a zoo." She continues with her ministrations, cleansing all traces of blood from Romanov's skin.

"But she doesn't understand at all?" Loki asks. "She's not just being stubborn, she does _not_ understand what any of us are saying?"

"She doesn't even respond to her own name," Coulson says, folding his arms across his chest. He looks tired, much older than when Loki saw him last, and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Somehow, Loki suspects that he isn't the only sleep deprived person here.

"Natasha," Loki says, watching her every move, but she doesn't even blink as Simmons finishes cleaning her up and moves away from her. Loki takes a step forward and says her name again, but there is no response. His eyes narrow as he watches her rest her head against her holding slab, her chest sinking as she exhales, impatience wearing her down. On the SHIELD ship she had told him that she was no longer Russian, and yet here she is, completely devoid of any English vocabulary or understanding. He casts his mind back to the days when Barton was in his service, when he would leak information like a sieve, how he had spoken at length about Romanov's origins, her background, her identities. He looks towards Barton now, his mind grasping in the darkness for something that belongs to Romanov, no matter how much she might have tried to shake it.

"What?" Barton asks, perplexed. "What's the matter?"

Loki shakes his head and closes his eyes, concentrating entirely on the word that tickles the tips of his fingers as he tries to seize it with both hands. He turns on the spot, running a hand through his hair as he tries to remember, as he tries to rebuild the scene from his memory, and then, at long last, it happens, and his eyes snap open.

"Natalia," he says, stepping as close to her as he dare. She looks at him, though doesn't give any indication that she claims that name. "Natalia, Alianovna, Romanova," he says slowly, the words coming easily now that he has gotten over that first hurdle. She doesn't acknowledge him, but her green eyes stare into his, and he can tell that she doesn't recognise him, not at all, not even a fraction. There is no hint of doubt in her gaze, just the certainty that the man standing before her is nothing to her.

It almost hurts him.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova," he says, this time with more confidence, his index finger lightly tapping her upper arm with each word. "That's you, isn't it?"

She looks down at his finger, the tip still resting against her bicep, and then she meets his gaze. Without warning, she spits, a thick globule of saliva splattering onto Loki's cheek. Her jaw twitches, and he wonders if she is gritting her teeth, preparing for the retaliatory slap, but he doesn't indulge her distrustful expectations. Instead he turns away, takes Thor by the wrist, then raises his arm in order to wipe his face on the sleeve of his jacket. From the corner of his eye, Loki can see the Captain roll his eyes at his behaviour.

"There's nothing I can do," Loki says at last. "She's been regressed. Her memories aren't locked away, they're just not there. I can't undo that with magic." He gives Romanov a brief salute of farewell and turns on his heel, but he doesn't manage to take two steps before Thor's hefty hand lands on his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

"On your life," he growls. "On your life, you said."

"What do you want me to do?" Loki asks, his face contorting in confusion. "This is a _long_ job and you probably won't get her back at all. You all know her far better than I do, and will be far more successful in your endeavours. I wish you all good luck, but I really must get back to my kingdom." He takes another step but Thor grips him firmly by the collar, and Loki hears the familiar swoosh of Mjolnir dashing to its master's hand.

"You said you would help her," Thor says darkly. "And you _will_."

Loki clicks his fingers, and Mjolnir drops to the ground with a loud and satisfying clunk. He sees Thor's shoulders stiffen, his lips twitch, as though they are itching to say something, and he can feel the tension and shock rise like a tidal wave all around them. He loves the sound, the piercing nothingness, where not even the tiniest breath is exhaled, not one shoe shifts on the ground, and not a single muscle moves a millimetre.

"Do _not_ try and threaten me with the power I so generously let you keep after you abandoned our realm." He says the words so quietly, and yet he knows that every single person in the room, even Romanov, can hear each and every whispered syllable. "It won't _work_."

"Brother," Thor says, his blue eyes glazed as he stares straight ahead, scrambling to keep the last few tatters of his dignity together. "You know the workings of the mind better than anyone else here. You are the best chance we have of getting her back."

"Don't be _ridiculous_," Loki retorts. "You're telling me," he turns to address the rest of the group now, all eyes on him. "That with all of SHIELD's might and power that you can't get the finest psychiatrists and psychologists and doctors and _carers_ to help recover one of your most treasured assets?"

Coulson looks down at his feet, his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped. Loki then glances across to Agent May, whose expression has faltered for the first time. The three youngsters are very interested in the floor it seems, and even the Captain has bowed his head in defeat. Loki cannot help the grin that spreads across his face, his teeth grazing on his lower lip as he puts two and two together. They're still without a human translator. Half of the Avengers are gathered in this pitiful little building with no real healthcare facilities. Romanov's holding apparatus has been hastily welded together out of what looks like an old steel workbench. None of them will look him in the eye.

"This is it, isn't it?" he says, unable to keep the delight from his voice. "This is all of you. Two broken Avengers, three schoolchildren, three moderately capable fighters, my oaf of a brother, and the undead Son of Coul. How our fine heroes do fall."

"_Director_ Son of Coul, actually," Coulson says, looking up at him at last. "And yes, this is it. Which is why we need your help. She's not just an asset, she's a friend. Please."

"What happened to Fury?" Loki asks, disregarding Coulson's futile display of sentiment. "Why is he not standing here dishing out orders?"

"Fury's dead," Agent May says coolly. She fixes Loki with a stern gaze, and the corner of his mouth turns upwards.

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you," he says, then returns his attention to Coulson. "I don't see that there's anything in this for me. You all hate me, and she _certainly_ hates me," he jabs his injured thumb in the direction of Romanov, "so why would I stick around here to help her get back to a state of mind where she knows _exactly_ why she hates me?"

"We'll call it quits," Coulson says, and the words earn him several looks of surprise from his fellows. Agent May's eyebrows twitch in discontent, Barton's eyes narrow to a scrutinising stare, and the Captain's mouth gapes, as though he can't believe what Coulson is saying. "We'll call it quits, and wipe the slate clean and Asgard and Earth can be allies going forward, if that's what you want."

"Why would Asgard want _Midgard_ as an ally? Besides, you don't have the right to make that call."

"Maybe not," Coulson says calmly, taking a step forward. "But I've got the numbers of everybody who kicked your ass in New York on my speed dial."

At this, Barton smirks, his arms crossed against his chest as he watches the exchange with interest. Loki has already wasted enough of his day on this pitiful rock, however. He will admit that Romanov's situation is incredibly curious, but he can ask that Heimdall keep a watchful eye on things and inform him of any interesting developments. Should things ever get _really_ entertaining, such as the Captain having his other arm broken, or perhaps Thor being held captive in a headlock, he will gladly make the trip down to spectate. But until such events unfold, he will be in Asgard.

"There's nothing in it for me," he says with a shrug, but before he can turn away, the young girl with the dark wavy hair pushes her way past Simmons and stares him down, her petite frame making her almost laughable.

"You know you could do something nice just to be _nice_," she says with a scowl. "Or would that offend your cold rotten heart?"

He finds it endlessly amusing that the mortals will be so vocal about judging him, but are keeping very much quiet on the reason as to _why_ they are only a handful, when at last count SHIELD was made up of thousands of trained killers. He wonders how many of them have considered the fact that they may well have taken innocent lives under the guidance of their morally questionable masters. And yet they stand here in front of him, looking down on him from their high horses, as though they don't have innocent blood on their hands as well. He's not sure which is worse, being perfectly aware that there are innocent casualties as a result of your actions, or being so ignorant and blind that you don't realise you've been working for the other side all the time. It's a tough one to call, and though he can't make his mind up on the matter, what he _does_ know is that their moral ground is crumbling under their boots, dragging them down to his level.

"What's your name?" he asks, looking down at the girl with mild interest. She's certainly brave, but bravery was never any indication of intellect. One only had to look at Thor to arrive at that conclusion.

"_Skye_," she says defiantly, lifting her chin a little in order to make herself appear a fraction taller.

"Well _Skye_," Loki says, his expression patronising, his tone even more so. "If you have such a big _warm_ heart, then why aren't _you_ helping Agent Romanov?"

"I don't know _how_," she responds through gritted teeth.

"And nor do I," Loki tells her. "If there were some magic I could perform to return your dear agent to her _charming_ self, then I assure you," he places his hand on his heart and affects an earnest expression. "I would do it without a moment's hesitation, if only to shut my brother up. But, alas, there is nothing for me to do."

He turns away, but Skye darts in front of him, her stubbornness getting the better of her. It's likely to get her killed one day, of that, he has no doubt.

"But you got a _reaction_ from her," she protests. "You actually got a _reaction_. In two minutes you achieved more than we have in two _days_."

Loki frowns at her. "Two days and none of you thought to address her by her given name?" He turns to Barton, in whom he is most disappointed. "Really?"

"She hasn't gone by that name for years. None of us have ever called her by that name."

"And I doubt she's spoken solely in Russian for years, either. It wasn't a difficult leap and I am _not_ here to make up for your logical ineptitudes."

He is about to call Heimdall, fed up of his exits being blocked, but then from behind, Thor utters five words that cause his blood to run cold in his veins, his stomach to jolt unpleasantly, bile rising in his throat.

"Mother would have helped her."

Loki clenches his right hand into a fist, his fingers itching for his staff. His heart pounds in his chest, so loudly that he is certain that despite all the leather and metal protecting him, everybody in the room can hear it, perhaps everybody on the _planet_. The corners of his eyes start to itch, and he clamps his teeth together, ignoring the twitching of a muscle in his jaw. He is so furious that he nearly lets his façade slip, nearly reveals to everyone the skeletal mess on whom they are depending.

"Don't you _dare_ use her as a bargaining chip," Loki hisses, whirling around to face him. "Don't you _dare_."

"She would have," Thor says firmly. "Even if she didn't know _how_."

"Don't pretend that you knew her well enough to say that. Don't pretend even for a minute that - "

"She loved _you_," Thor says, and the words sting more than Loki ever thought they would. "She loved you even when you were at your _worst_. If she could do that, then what makes you think that her compassion would not extend to Natasha?"

It's unnecessary. It's cruel. And it shows his true colours. No matter how much Thor claims to love him, he will _always_ sling the harshest words at Loki whenever anybody else might benefit. He has spent hours, perhaps, in Romanov's company, but the thousand years of childhood falls by the wayside in favour of her. No matter how Thor will backtrack later, (because he _will_, when it suits him, he _will_) Loki will always hear those words exactly as Thor intended them. _She loved you even when there was nothing worth loving_.

The worst bit is, he knows that Thor is right. For as cold and damaged as Loki will admit that he is, his mother was warm and loving and kind. She was the woman who went against Odin's word and brought him books, she was the woman who welcomed the mortal into Asgard, she was the woman who took in the bastard frost giant and called him her son. And yes, she would have been the woman who stayed on Midgard to aid Romanov in any way she could. It's his own fault that he is standing here instead of her, and he will never be able to make that up to her.

"Get me a Russian dictionary," he says to no one in particular. "And find somewhere for her to stay. This is…" he gestures to the harness keeping her in place, "cruel."

There is a bustle of activity, and Loki feels a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off and goes to speak to Simmons. She is, it seems, the only decent one amongst them.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Up early to post an update for you lovelies before I head back to London. Going to have a fair bit of writing time while I'm away, but no laptop, so the next you'll hear from me will probably be Monday, I think. Anyway, hope you like this chapter, let me know what you think. =]

* * *

**Substitutes**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He grudgingly lets her stitch his thumb back together, partially because he knows how it will irk Coulson, partially because it hurts, but most especially because the door to the lab is sealed shut, with Thor on the other side, in conversation with the Captain. Simmons' chatty nature has given way to quiet concentration, while her companion hovers in the background, watching with a troubled expression on his face.

"She has quite the set of teeth," Simmons murmurs, pulling gently on the thread, closing the deep split in his skin. "It's lucky she only got your thumb."

Loki raises an eyebrow. "I don't have any intention of putting anything else near her mouth," he says, unable to keep the childish smirk from his lips. At this, Simmons blushes, once again betraying the youth that her ability disguises.

"I just meant," Simmons says, her gaze focused entirely on his thumb now. "That she could probably rip your throat out if she were let loose."

He chooses not to goad her any further, fully aware that she has a very sharp needle in her hand. He very much doubts she is the vicious type, however, with enough provocation she may become nervous or careless, and the resulting injury would be entirely his fault. He sits still, resisting the urge to twitch his thumb each time her needle pierces the skin, and stares out of the window to where Romanov is still strapped to her makeshift prison. Behind her he sees Barton and Triplett, leading an emaciated dark haired man across the room towards one of the corridors that leads deeper into the facility. The man's dark eyes linger on the girl, Skye, if his memory serves him correctly. She is looking determinedly away, and Loki is intrigued by her outright denial of his existence. His eyes drink in her reaction, from the folded arms, to the defiantly set jaw and refusal to blink. She is breathing heavily through her nose, her mouth sealed shut, and even from this distance, Loki can see her chest rise and fall significantly while she listens to what Coulson has to say.

When Coulson finishes speaking, she gives him a nod and leaves the room without so much as a backward glance. At this moment, Simmons finishes her work on his thumb, and he looks down to find a row of small, perfectly neat stitches, all the same length, all the same distance apart. Her precision is quite remarkable, and even she looks rather pleased with her handiwork.

"Try not to use it, if you can manage it," she tells him as she takes off her surgical gloves and drops them into the nearest bin. "It'll be a lot better after a couple of days if you can manage to really rest it now."

"Thank you," Loki says, knowing full well he won't pay any attention to her advice. He stands up from the bed he has been sitting on and Simmons clears away her medical apparatus, bustling around until order is restored.

"Don't tell the Director," she says, her eyes flicking across to where Coulson stands, next to the Captain, the pair of them talking to Thor. "He…well, I mean, it's understandable, but I can't leave you with your thumb torn open. It's unhygienic for a start, _and_ we don't know how exactly they've transformed Agent Romanov. It could be something that's transferable by saliva or…" She trails off, her brow furrowing as she considers things that Loki is certain she has been over and over in her head at least a dozen times. He glances towards the boy, who is yet to say a word, his pale eyes fixed on Simmons as though he is awaiting instructions.

"What tests have you performed?" Loki asks.

Simmons breaks out of her thoughts and immediately becomes her animated self once more, her face running through a myriad of expressions as she talks. "We took blood samples," she tells him. "And as far as we can tell there's been no change. _But, _if the technology that was used is advanced beyond what we've encountered, then it's very possible that we're just unable to _detect_ the change, rather than it not being there. It's incredibly difficult when you don't know what you're looking for."

"We um, we weren't able to do a brain scan. She's ah…she's…" The boy's words fade into nothingness, and he closes his eyes, pressing his hands against his face.

"Uncooperative," Simmons finishes for him.

"Yeah," he says quickly, dropping his hands from his face and pointing shakily towards Simmons as he nods his head. "Uncooperative, I was just about to…" He stops again, and Loki looks towards Simmons, expecting her to supply the missing word, but all he sees is a brave face that isn't quite able to hide her concern.

"Can't you sedate her?" Loki asks, his eyes flicking between the two as he awaits an answer.

"We need to see brain activity," Simmons replies, tearing her eyes away from the boy. "If she's doped up or unconscious then we won't get very accurate results. We're also not certain that we can even use the MRI scanner. We haven't been able to give her a medical yet, and we don't want to put her at risk."

He doesn't know what an MRI scanner is, or why Romanov might need a medical before she is subjected to its effects, but he doesn't ask. He lets Simmons continue talking, and he is barely managing to hide his astonishment that somebody who talks so freely ever made it into a top secret intelligence agency. Perhaps if they keep her locked in the lab and away from the outside world, she poses a much less significant threat to their secrecy.

"It's just so _strange_," Simmons continues, and Loki gets the distinct impression that she would still be saying all this aloud, even if he and the boy weren't here. "She was like a _machine_ when she came in the other day. I've never seen anything like it, and I've seen Agent _May_ in combat, and let me tell you," she looks up at him, nodding emphatically, "that is _impressive_." She pauses before continuing, leaning against the workbench, her hands resting on the edge, fingers tapping the underside of the tabletop. "But it was all so fast, and she was so _strong_, but from what we can estimate she hasn't gained any weight, nor muscle mass. Agent Barton says she looks exactly the same, but the _strength_." She shakes her head and lets out a sigh, but then her attention is drawn to the boy, whose face is contorted into an expression of discontent. "Fitz?" she asks, pushing away from the workbench and approaching him slowly. Fitz shakes his head and backs away from her, holding his finger up to keep her away. He taps his forehead rapidly with the tips of his fingers, and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. Simmons backs off, watching him anxiously, and Loki's curiosity piques, his full attention on Fitz.

"You said," Fitz said, his accent sharp and angular, though his tone is quite the opposite. "What was it you _said?_"

Simmons blinks, her mouth ajar as she tries to remember what Fitz might be referring to. "I…I said we took some blood," she says, shrugging her shoulders.

Fitz shakes his head jerkily. "_No_," he says, brushing the statement away with a flap of his hand. He paces back and forth across the small medical bay, the muscles in his shoulders tensed as he tries to pin down the words for which he so desperately searches.

"I said we haven't given her a medical yet," Simmons offers, shrugging her shoulders.

"_No_," Fitz says again, and he covers his face with his hands, his eyes closed.

"What's wrong with him?" Loki asks Simmons quietly.

"There is _nothing_ wrong with me!" Fitz screams, sweeping his hand across the nearest workbench and knocking everything to the floor, glass smashing, papers fluttering, medical instruments clattering and rolling across the ground. Simmons gasps, her hand flying to her heart before she quickly recovers and sets about cleaning up the mess. It seems as though she is no stranger to this kind of outburst.

Before Loki can amend his statement, the door crashes open and the room is crowded with people. Barton sends a venomous look in Loki's direction while the Captain approaches Fitz, his good hand reaching out to grasp his shoulder in an attempted display of friendship.

"Hey buddy," he says, his voice calm and kind. "Let's try not to do that, okay? We don't have much of a budget left to replace this kind of stuff." He nods towards the mess on the floor, his lips curving as he smiles at his own non-joke. Fitz stares blankly at the Captain's chest, his diminutive frame not giving him much hope of making level eye-contact, and the Captain gives his shoulder a squeeze before he pats him on the back. Loki looks down at Simmons, who is hiding her face while she gathers up the discarded papers. He hears a sniff, and the faint sense of discontent in the pit of his belly grows stronger.

"I did not mean to offend," Loki says, directing his attention towards Fitz. "It was tactless of me. I apologise."

Fitz nods, but doesn't say anything. After a moment, he blinks, and it is though he is coming back to reality. He immediately drops down to his haunches and starts picking up the larger pieces of shattered glass.

"Jemma, I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm really sorry."

"It's all right," she says, turning to face him with a very prepared smile. "It's fine."

"No, no, no it's not," Fitz says, shaking his head as he continues to clean up. Simmons stands and heads over to the cupboard in the far corner, opening it and pulling out a dustpan and brush, then returns to the mess and starts sweeping up the shards.

"There was an incident," Simmons says slowly, glancing up at Loki. "Fitz's brain was starved of oxygen and - " she pauses, swallowing the lump in her throat before she continues. " - there was some damage, _extensive damage_, to his temporal lobe."

Fitz is concentrating heavily on gathering up all of the tiny silver instruments littered across the floor, studiously ignoring every word that comes from Simmons' mouth.

"_But_," Simmons says, forcing out that smile again. "He's been doing really well, and he's made an awful lot of progress, but sometimes he finds it hard to…" she trails off, her eyes lingering on him as she attempts to choose the right words. "Sometimes he finds it hard to express himself with the same amount of detail he used to."

Loki nods, and apparently that, from Simmons' point of view, clearly means that she doesn't need to elaborate any further. He looks around the room, his eyes lingering on the injured Captain, and then after, the not-dead Director. Beyond the medical bay, Romanov is strapped down, out of her mind and bloodthirsty, while in here, on his hands and knees, is a man who, Loki is quite certain, has a formidable intellect (for a mortal), and yet he can't communicate to save his life. They're a mess, and if Loki didn't know how much they hate him, he might feel sorry for them.

"Leo," Thor says softly, moving carefully past Triplett in the small space. He lowers himself, resting on his haunches, and peers into Fitz's face, trying (and failing) to make eye contact. He decides, like the Captain, that it is necessary to put his hand on Fitz's shoulder, to give some impression of fondness that has no true basis. Their kindness is so transparent, powered by the dull desire to do the _right thing_, rather than acting because they _care_ about the person in question.

It makes him feel sick.

"Leo, with the courage of a thousand lions," Thor tells him, his voice as quiet as it will ever go. He smiles at Fitz, and Loki rolls his eyes as Thor's expression positively radiates sunshine. "Your bravery is the reason that there are two of you here today," Thor continues. "You have paid a price, but you are here, and you mustn't fret. Your road to recovery is long, and it is a road you must travel alone, but know that we, your friends, will _always_ be there when you need us. Even though we cannot make it better, we can - "

"Oh shut _up_," Loki sighs, his patience finally running out.

Thor stands immediately, his brow contorting into a frown, his fists clenched at his side. "Why don't _you - _"

"He doesn't need _sentiment_," Loki snaps. "He _needs_ people to listen to what he's _saying_." He moves Coulson out of his way with little regard for courtesy and drags over the nearest two chairs, setting them opposite each other. He taps Fitz on the shoulder and he turns around, looking up at Loki, his eyes bright, lower lip trembling ominously. "_Sit_," Loki says firmly, gesturing to the opposite chair. He sits down in his own and Fitz follows orders, his right knee jogging nervously as he sits there, wringing his hands in his lap. "Now," Loki continues. "Tell me, to the best of your ability, what it is you want to say."

Fitz sighs, glancing around anxiously at the others, his hands shaking.

"Ignore them," Loki tells him, not bothering to keep his voice low. "They're imbeciles. Just tell me."

Fitz nods, his shoulders relaxing a little at this. "Simmons said, she said…" he closes his eyes and rests his head in his hands, fingers gripping his short curly hair in frustration.

"I've got a good four thousand years left," Loki says. "You don't have to rush."

Fitz lowers his hands, and Loki is certain that he detects a hint of a smile, though whether it is one of relief or amusement, he couldn't say, so tiny and fleeting it is. "Simmons said…" Fitz says again, this time his words coming slower, giving him more time to think of what will come next. "Simmons said that she was like a _machine_."

Loki nods, but doesn't speak. He doesn't suppose it would be a good idea to interrupt now that Fitz is finally on the move.

"But she's _not_ a machine," Fitz says, with such an earnest expression of importance on his face that Loki cannot help but file the information away as significant.

"Well we _know that_, Fitz," Simmons sighs. She rests her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped. "We took bloods, she's fine. Well she's not _fine_, she's - "

"No, you're not _listening_," Fitz argues, his voice raising above the volume of Simmons', eyes brimming with tears of frustration. "You're not _listening_."

Simmons says nothing, and looks down at her knees while Fitz fidgets in his seat, his right hand scratching at the underside of his left forearm with such vehemency that Loki suspects he may be in danger of piercing the skin. He reaches out and grabs Fitz's wrist, before he can do any damage to himself.

"It's an _animal_," Fitz tells him, his eyes boring into Loki's, desperate for him to understand what he's saying.

"_She_," Barton says pointedly, "is a human being. And _she_ is still a superior ranking agent."

Loki closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. "Not _Romanov_, you fool," he says. "The word he's _looking for_ is an animal."

"Yes!" Fitz says excitedly. "Yes!"

Barton begins to apologise, but Fitz isn't listening, rocking back and forth in his seat as he tries to narrow down his search. He starts scratching at his arm again, then slaps it, the pale skin reddening quickly from his assault.

"It's an animal that scratches?" Loki suggests, wracking his brain to try and put the puzzle pieces together.

"No," Fitz says, shaking his head emphatically. "_No_." He looks towards Simmons imploringly, but she doesn't have any more of a clue than Loki does.

"Is it hairy?" Simmons suggests, but Fitz continues to shake his head, slapping at his arm, his frustration building and building while the others look on with sombre expressions.

"No, not hairy," Fitz says. "Not hairy."

"So like a snake?" Loki says. "Is it like a snake?"

"Yes!" Fitz says, his face lighting up before it creases into a confused frown once more. "Well _no_, but…_less _no."

"Does it have legs?" Loki asks, grasping at straws. This game of charades is tiring enough, without the prospect of dealing with a murderous, unhinged assassin who doesn't speak a word of English.

"Yes!" Fitz says, standing abruptly, gesturing excitedly with his hands. "Yes! _Tons_!"

"Centipede," Simmons breathes, then immediately lets out a huff, apparently disappointed with herself for taking so long to arrive at the answer.

"_Yes_!" Fitz says, rushing towards Simmons now. "Centipede!"

"Yes, of course, _sorry_ Fitz." She gives his upper arm a reassuring rub, her breathing far more relaxed now that they've made a breakthrough.

"She's not Centipede," Fitz says, turning around to face the others. His tone and stance are triumphant, but he doesn't get much of a reaction from the others at all.

"But we knew that already, Fitz," Agent May says, in what Loki suspects is supposed to be her kindest voice. "We know she's not Centipede."

Fitz lets out a growl of frustration, his hands gripping his hair again as he paces back and forth across the narrow width of the room. "You're not _listening_," he mutters. "You're not _listening_!" He shouts it this time, his emotions getting the better of him, though he manages to refrain from destroying any more equipment.

"What _is_ Centipede, exactly?" Loki asks. He looks to Simmons for an answer, but it is Coulson who clears his throat and speaks up.

"It was an enhancement project. Gifted test subjects were fitted with certain cybernetic features, namely a plate on their arm," he nods to the red marks on Fitz's arm, left by his desperate clawing. "It gave the subjects more strength, more power, more stamina."

"And if Romanov hasn't been through this process then we can discount those behind Centipede as the perpetrators," Loki says, resting his thumb against his chin. He commits everything that Fitz says to memory, knowing that his form of communication cannot handle specificity, so he must use elimination instead. Only by telling them all the things that Romanov is not, will he eventually be able to tell them that which Romanov _is_. Despite the length of time it takes to get even the smallest piece of information from him, they are still making progress, and to be perfectly honest, he's not entirely keen to get up close and personal with Romanov any time soon, so he's happy to sit here instead.

"Not necessarily," Fitz tells him. He's still pacing, his eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown as he considers his next move, and Loki recognises in him the horrible sensation of being trapped inside his own head. His brain is able to put everything together in abstract form, present it as a solid idea, but as soon as it comes to getting the idea out in the open, he hits a wall, and there's no way to go around it, or over it, or through it. Instead, he has to go back, retrace his steps, and try another route.

Loki's surprised Fitz is keeping as calm as he is.

"She's a patient," he says at last, though he only receives confused expressions from the others in response. "She's a patient, so she has a…" he snaps his fingers repeatedly, and turns to look at Simmons. "She's a patient," he says again, "so she has a…" he starts waving his hand in a circular motion, in an attempt to bring forth a quick answer from Simmons.

"A medical record?" she suggests, but Fitz shakes his head impatiently. "A disease? You think it's a disease?"

"_No_," Fitz tells her. "She has a…a…_nurse_, no, _not nurse - _"

"A doctor," Barton says, lowering his head in an attempt to meet Fitz's gaze. "Is that what you mean, Fitz? A doctor?"

"_Yes_, she has a _doctor_." At this Fitz breathes a sigh of relief, a smile spreading across his face, but when he looks at the others, all crammed into one half of the medical bay, their faces not giving away any sense of illumination, his shoulders slump. "Well isn't it _obvious_?" Fitz says, letting out a huff and shaking his head minutely as he walks away. Loki cannot see his face clearly, but is certain he detects a roll of the eyes, and almost smiles in response.

"So she has a doctor…" Loki says, in an attempt to push their meandering hunt for facts in the right direction. "A doctor…"

"A healer," Thor pipes up, his deep voice decimating the silence. "But they call them doctors down here, Broth- "

"Yes I _know_ what a _doctor_ is," Loki retorts through gritted teeth. "Just shut up for once, won't you?" He receives a disapproving glare for his words, but Thor does not utter another sound. "If she has a doctor, then it's the personal touch. She's not part of a bigger batch, is that what you're saying?"

Fitz turns around, his lips skewed the side, nose scrunched. Loki assumes this means that he's not _wrong_, but that he's also missed the point that Fitz is trying to make.

"I think we need…" Fitz says softly, closing his eyes as his words fade into nothingness. He starts bouncing on his toes as he tries to grasp the words he needs, and then, without warning, his eyes snap open. "Sweetcorn!" he says loudly, his eyes wide with expectation. He whirls around so that he's facing Simmons and rushes over to her. From the corner of his eye, Loki sees Coulson exchange a sceptical glance wit Agent May, and vows to get some sense out of Fitz, even if it takes him the rest of the year.

"Sweetcorn?" Simmons asks, beyond confused at this point.

"Yes!" Fitz says, taking her by the upper arms and giving her a gentle shake. "Yes! Sweetcorn! From home!"

"I…" Simmons is stuck, her teeth scraping against her lower lip, though she doesn't look to the others for guidance. Her attention is solely on Fitz.

"You know it! You do! It's ah, it's um," he takes a step back from her, squares his shoulders, and then in a surprisingly deep, cartoonish voice says: "Ho ho ho."

"Green giant!" Simmons blurts out excitedly, her face lighting up as a smile spreads across her lips. "Of course! Sorry Fitz, I should have gotten that one sooner."

"Not gonna lie to you," Coulson says. "Totally lost."

"Green giant," she begins slowly, placing a hand on Fitz's shoulder and giving it a congratulatory squeeze, "is a brand of sweetcorn back home. Obviously the green giant he's referring to is - "

Loki feels his stomach drop, and his intestines start to tie themselves into knots at the sheer thought of the beast.

"- The Hulk, and I _think_ Fitz is saying that we need Dr Banner's input on this because…" Here, her confidence falters, her smile fading. "Because you think she's been exposed to gamma radiation?"

Fitz shakes his head, still clearly unhappy with the lousy job that the others are doing at interpreting his communications. "Banner's not Centipede."

It's as though a torch has been ignited in Loki's brain, and he finally, _finally_ understands what Fitz is saying, what he's been trying to say for the last fifteen minutes.

"You mean Romanov and Banner are, broadly, in the same category. Similar processes, slightly different outcomes, but, as human experimentation goes - "

"Yes!" Fitz says, his eyes wide with relief, his hands clasped together as though in prayer. "Yes! Exactly! And," he says, his relief vanishing as he starts to battle with his brain again. "_And_…" He paces back and forth, wringing his hands, his constant to-ing and fro-ing giving Loki a faint sense of dizziness.

Suddenly, he stops and looks up, his eyes fixed on the Captain.

"You," he says quietly, his index finger pointing towards him. He walks across to him, looking him up and down. "It's you. But not you."

The Captain frowns, but before he can utter anything idiotic, Loki intervenes. "You think Romanov has had a similar sort of treatment to the Captain and the Beast?"

"Yep," Fitz says, nodding enthusiastically. "That's right."

At this, the Captain's face drains of colour, and he runs his good hand through his hair, his eyes filled with worry.

"What?" Barton says, pushing away from the wall and standing up straight, his shoulders tensed. "What's up?"

"Bucky," Steve breathes. "They did to her what they did to Bucky."

With that, he excuses himself, his teeth tugging on his lower lip as he carefully makes his way to the exit. He doesn't look at Romanov as he departs, but heads to one of the corridors on the far side of the main room, disappearing into the distance. A heavy silence hangs in the air, and Fitz looks around, as though expecting there to be more cheerfulness now that they're starting to get to the bottom of things. There's nothing, however. All that remains is an oppressive, heavy silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **So it's been a while. Sorry about that. I do now have a much busier life since I moved back to London, so updates aren't as regular as I'd like. I thought I'd put a bit of an explanation about events of the previous chapter here, something that I didn't mention at the beginning of the fic because it would have kind of massively spoiled things. Anyway, the Nat I'm using is the one from the MCU, who was born in 1984 and is, for all intents and purposes, fully human, without any enhancements other than extreme training. So when Cap said that they've done to her what they did to Bucky, not only is he talking about experiments, but he's also talking about the complete lack of recognition in her. I wanted to keep this fairly short, so if you have any more questions about my headcanon for this fic, then ask away and I'll drop you a message to fill you in. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

**Substitutes**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"I'll get in touch with Banner," Coulson says eventually, his voice betraying his weariness. He rubs his forehead and lets out a sigh. "He'll make the trip, I'm sure." He then turns to Fitz, addressing him directly. "Good work," he says. "Couldn't handle this without you."

Fitz doesn't seem to absorb any of Coulson's praise however, his expression fractured with anxiety. "Dr Banner? Coming here?" he asks quietly.

"He's got a lid on it," Barton says in a reassuring tone. "And he might manage to keep a lid on it if someone behaves themselves." His eyes meet Loki's, his point as subtle as an axe to the skull, and Loki rolls his eyes in response. It is of no comfort to Fitz, however, because he turns to Simmons, shaking his head apprehensively.

"Jemma," he says quietly. "He can't - he can't - "

"You'll be perfectly safe," Coulson tells him. "He's a really nice guy."

Loki raises an eyebrow, but Coulson ignores him.

"I know that," Fitz says, his hands shaking as he presses them against his mouth, his breaths coming short and sharp. "But he can't - I can't let him see me like this."

"Oh Fitz," Simmons sighs. She presses her lips into a thin line, her eyes bright with emotion. "Fitz don't say that."

"You don't understand," Fitz tells her, his voice shaky and uneven. "I've been reading his - his - "

"Studies," Simmons supplies.

"Yes, I was just about to _say_," Fitz says impatiently. "I've been reading his studies for years, and now, he's going to turn up here and think I'm an - I don't want him to think that I can't - that I'm - "

"Stupid," Loki says quietly. He grabs Thor's wrist before his fist manages to make contact with his shoulder blade, and he can feel the daggers being glared at him by everybody. Even Simmons' brow is contorted in disapproval.

"Yeah," Fitz says. "Yeah…"

"You're not stupid, Fitz," Coulson tells him. "You're a god damn genius, and that's evident to everybody. If anybody tells you you're stupid, let me know. I'm sure May can come up with an appropriate response."

Agent May inclines her head, confirming that she will be more than happy to inflict high levels of pain on anybody who considers Fitz to be less than intellectual. They're missing the point entirely however. It's not about name calling, it's not about what people think, it's about what Banner thinks. The Beast is, clearly, and rather unfortunately, the boy's academic idol. And now he finally gets to meet him, to work with him, and he can't string a sentence together to save his life. Despite his grudge against the Beast, he knows that Banner will not judge Fitz in the slightest, he will be patient with him, he will be kind, and he will try his best to involve Fitz in the work. Yet Fitz's pride, already in tatters from his accident, will be pulverised if he can't impress his hero with his own work.

"Can you - " Fitz says quietly, his eyes glued to Loki. "Can you - " he pauses, and somehow it's different to his normal hesitations. Loki has the sneaking suspicion that Fitz has the words resting on his tongue, ready to come out, but doesn't want to say them aloud.

"Can you fix me?"

Fitz's words hang in the air, and nobody says a word. All eyes are on Loki now, anticipating his response, and Fitz's watery blue eyes bore into Loki's, silently pleading him to say yes.

"I'll do anything," Fitz tells him, when Loki doesn't answer. "Anything, I swear."

"No," Barton says quietly, "No, Fitz, don't say that."

"But I _will_," Fitz argues, his accent becoming more prominent the more worked up he gets. "I _will_. I promise, just - please make me right. _Please_."

Coulson opens his mouth to speak, but Loki cuts across him. "Everybody get out." His voice is quiet, but firm, and Barton puts a hand on Fitz's shoulder possessively, understandably unwilling to leave him alone with Loki.

"Brother - "

"Get out."

"We're not leaving him alone with you," Barton argues. "No _way_, we're not going to do that."

"Then Simmons can stay," Loki says. "But the rest of you need to leave."

Thor fixes him with a stern gaze, then, eventually, squeezes his way past Triplett and Skye to exit the medical bay. This is enough to get the others moving, and they file out, Coulson the last one in line.

"If you damage him," he says quietly. "Banner's visit won't just be academic."

Loki says nothing, and waits until the door closes before he lets his attention fall on Fitz's cautiously optimistic expression.

"I can't help you," he says, breaking the news quickly. It's the only way he really knows how to be kind. At this, Fitz's face crumples, and is soon hidden behind his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Simmons rubs his back slowly and soothingly, her disappointment just as obvious as Fitz's.

Loki moves his foot, kicking the chair opposite him gently with his toe. Fitz removes his hands from his face as the chair legs scrape against the floor, and Loki nods to the seat, gesturing for him to sit down. He does, and Simmons pulls over a chair as well, then takes a seat, her arm around Fitz, as though keeping the two of them physically connected will enable her to share this burden for him.

"If there were magic I could perform to help you, I would," Loki tells him, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward, looking Fitz dead in the eye. "But the only reason they came to me ono Romanov's behalf was the fact that I compromised Barton. But when I compromised Barton, I had the power of the Tesseract, and the Tesseract is locked away now. Out of harm's way. My magic isn't…it's not like you think it is."

"But are there other people, from your world?" Fitz asks, clinging to the idea that he might still be able to find a miracle cure. "Do they know about fixing people's heads?"

"If we could mess around with people's heads, do you really think I would have let Thor continue to be as infuriatingly idiotic as he is?"

The joke doesn't raise a smile from Fitz nor Simmons.

"Look," Loki says, and he struggles now with the concept of tact. As a king, he doesn't need to be tactful. Sif rewords all of his official statements for him. Considering the feelings of others is not a part of his job description. "Slow progress is still progress," he says, and he tries to think of the sort of thing his mother might say in this situation. She was always so much better at this kind of thing. He didn't get rid of the others solely for Fitz's benefit; his pride couldn't bear it if they saw him stumble through this mess of a conversation. "It will feel all the slower to you because you know how fast you used to be. It's going to be difficult, and there aren't any short cuts. As much as it pains me to say it, my beloved brother is right. You have to do this alone. Nobody here can know what you're going through, not really. They can try and understand, but they can't help you with it."

Fitz nods, chewing on his bottom lip. He's in severe danger of letting that first tear drop, but Loki cannot abide that. While the medical bay door is closed, the glass still leaves them in plain view of the others. He cannot cast an illusion to give them privacy - Thor will recognise it in seconds, and the whole lot of them will come thundering in. It's the last thing either of them want.

"As I understand it," Loki continues, sitting up straighter now. "You need to build new pathways to communicate. Your old ones are blocked, and if they won't clear, then you need to make a detour. That's what you've done today, you've eliminated everything that Romanov isn't, because you can't tell us exactly what she is." At this, he sees Fitz's frustration start to creep in again, but then Loki feels that mental shove, as though his mother is there, really and truly, and giving him direction. "Which is better, if you think about it," he says, uncertain of the words that are falling from his mouth. They come without forethought, though he knows they belong to him. "It forces us to consider all the options, rather than following up a wild guess."

At this, Simmons' expression brightens, and she nods enthusiastically, pulling Fitz a little closer to her as if to reinforce the positive sentiment.

Considering how many lies he has told, the feeling of being a fraud should not be so unfamiliar to him. But providing a silver lining to Fitz's terribly dark cloud leaves him feeling disingenuous, and a little bit nauseated. He knows, were he in Fitz's shoes, that he would be just as desperate to claw his way back to his normal mental capabilities, just as frustrated, and just as distraught. He wouldn't have destroyed a tableful of medical equipment, he would have taken a much more spectacular route, would have destroyed worlds if it meant he could communicate again.

But Fitz isn't him. Fitz is young, and Fitz is naive, and Fitz has the eternal sunshine of Simmons to keep him on track.

"The more you travel these new pathways," Loki says, feeling a little more comfortable now he is reverting back to logic, rather than strained positivity, "the more used to them you will become. And the more used to them you become, the quicker you will be able to traverse them."

"So," Fitz says slowly after a heavy sigh. "What you're saying is, be patient?" His tone is empty, and Loki is certain he has been told such things hundreds, if not thousands of times.

"You have no choice in that," Loki tells him. "But communicate as much as you can, as often as you can. It's not about length of time, it's about frequency of use. If you speak ten thousand words this week, it is going to have a much more positive result than speaking than ten thousand words in a month."

"He's saying you shouldn't shut yourself off," Simmons tells him gently. "People _will_ listen," she says. "We've got a lot on, and we don't seem to have nearly enough time, but we _all_ care about you, and I know that the others will make the time for you."

"It's just such a nuisance," Fitz replies. "It takes so long."

"But the more you practice, the quicker it'll be," Simmons says, giving him a squeeze. "You'll get there, I know you will." She looks up at Loki now, and gives him a real, genuine, smile.

He doesn't get those often.

"I have no idea what I'm going to do about Romanov," Loki confesses to the pair of them. "But she needs help. You don't. You're…" He feels that nudge again, and a twitch in his jaw as he tries to shape his mouth around the words. "You're doing really well."

Fitz nods and lets out a sigh of resignation. There's nothing more for Loki to say. His imagination won't stretch to any more words of comfort, and the idea of regurgitating false, optimistic clichés sickens him. It wouldn't be right to feed him nonsense. The right thing to do is manage his expectations and encourage him to push his boundaries. It is, as far as Loki can see, the only option.

* * *

He is given an old fashioned control for the cell, its software slow and clunky, though no doubt it is the height of technology on Midgard. He can change the lighting, the oxygen levels, the heat, and even the divide between his side of the basement and hers. She paces back and forth across the room, her eyes only ever leaving him for a split second when she turns, her red hair fanning out behind her, before her gaze is set on him once more, piercing like a bird of prey.

Barton is leaning against the side of the staircase, his arms folded as he tracks Romanov's progression. The door above opens abruptly, and Skye comes clomping down the stairs in her heavy boots, a thick book in her arms. Romanov spares her the most fleeting of glances, then returns her attention to Loki. Skye approaches with that same unconcerned attitude she has displayed thus far (and which, Loki will admit to himself, he finds mildly amusing) then thrusts the book into his arms, before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs.

He turns the book over, dropping his gaze from Romanov, and then looks at the cover, his heart sinking in his chest. It's the Russian dictionary he'd requested, though he hadn't expected something as weighty as this. Are there really _so many_ words on Midgard? He glances up to Romanov, who has paused in her pacing, her eyes focused on the book, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Deciding that he might as well show it to her, he walks slowly forward to the transparent barrier, holding the book in front of him for her to see. She regards him distrustfully, then takes a few steps closer, her arms folded, her neck craning forward to get a better look.

The cover is in English, and so, after she's had a look at it, though presumably hasn't gleaned any information from the rather plain design, Loki opens it up, hoping that the recognisable words will give her a better idea of what's going on. The first half of the book is a Russian to English translation, while the latter half, the half that is of more use to Loki, is the other way around.

He knows her situation better than she realises, knows that boredom will, eventually, win over any stubbornness she possesses (and he knows that she possesses a _lot_). He finds the mid point in the dictionary, where the sections switch, and he tears the book in half, ripping the spine in one clean motion, the pages remaining bound to their respective halves. He places the Russian to English half on the floor, steps back, then takes a look at his control pad, before pushing a few buttons and shifting Romanov's wall forward by a couple of feet.

She takes a step forward, then crouches down to pick up the dictionary, her eyes never leaving Loki's as though she suspects some sort of foul trick on his part, designed to hurt her or humiliate her. She picks up the pages carefully then stands straight again, before backing away to her original position. Loki shifts the wall back again.

"It will go twice as fast if we both make the effort," he tells her, though he knows, of course, it is pointless speaking to her in a language she cannot understand. He holds up his half of the dictionary, hoping that it will give her some idea as to what he's trying to say, that by sharing the load, they can meet each other in the middle that much sooner.

He's assuming she wants to meet in the middle, of course. She must realise that she's not getting out of here any time soon, and that her only hope of freedom will come through communication. He supposes he will have to make the first step, he will have to lead and show willing and then, eventually, she may follow. He flicks through the pages until he finds the word he's looking for, small, simple, and hopefully, a decent start to a slow and laborious conversation.

"_Hello_," he says.

"_Hello_." Her response is grudging, but not malicious. In the harsh light of the cell, the bottom of her teeth glint, and Loki runs the tip of his index finger over Simmons' neat stitches.

Barton moves forward with interest, his sure and steady steps attracting Romanov's attention. He takes the dictionary from Loki's grasp without hesitation and flips a few pages further on. He says a word that Loki doesn't understand, and so he reads over Barton's shoulder, to where his index finger is poised just below the word in question.

_Hurt_.

He had asked it as a question, and Romanov's response had been to shake her head. Barton nods, relaxing a little at this, but keeping a firm grip on the dictionary. Romanov starts flipping through her own dictionary, then pauses on a page, frowning down at the word as she tries to get her mouth around the pronunciation.

"Clean?" she asks, her accent thick, eyebrow quirked with uncertainty. She gestures to herself, her ripped clothes, her grubby skin, and greasy hair, her message quite clear.

"There's a shower," Clint says, stepping forward, enthusiastic about their communication, even if it is only about basic human needs. "Over there," he raises an arm, pointing his finger towards the corner of the cell, where a stark white partition wall shields a small portion of the room from view. "That's your bathroom," he says. "But wait here a second, I'll go grab you some clothes. You've got some in your trunk here."

Romanov arches an eyebrow, and the look is so familiar, and yet so strangely _un_familiar, that it leaves Loki with an uncomfortable swirling in the pit of his stomach. She's a puppet who's been let loose, though is still heavily influenced by the wants and needs of her master. Natasha has been pulled out of herself completely, and even though Loki doesn't particularly care for her, there is only one person in the universe on whom he would wish such a nightmare.

Barton rifles through the dictionary, but in his haste to put together a meaningful sentence, he loses sight of logic, of getting the message across in the fewest possible words. Loki steps towards him, snatching the dictionary from him and ignoring his outburst.

"Get your own," Loki tells him, leafing through the latter portion of the book. When he finds what he's looking for, he meets Romanov's gaze. "_Wait_," he says, and she does. He then flips the book over, flicking through the front section, until, again, he finds the words that will get Barton's sentiments across. "_Clothes_."

Romanov frowns and looks down at her clothes, fingering the tatty hem of her dark vest. She then looks up, then points to Barton, a discontented expression on her face.

"No," Loki says, shaking his head, her meaning now clear. "Barton will go and _get_ you some clothes." He turns to the middle of the dictionary now, and with each lookup, he gets better and better at estimating the page where his sought after word will be. "_New clothes_," he says, then turns to Barton. "Go," he tells him, and surprisingly, Barton follows orders without question, his concern for Romanov far outweighing his terminal dislike of Loki.

Silence hangs between them, and Loki can't help but dread the long and difficult path ahead of them. Every single word takes time to look up, so putting together a whole sentence will take minutes, easily, and even then, he doubts it would be right. He is beginning to get a horrible insight into how slow things are for Fitz at the moment, how he must translate what he wants to say in order to get it across properly and quickly. Loki knows he can be grateful for the fact that he is able to grasp his own words with ease, whereas Fitz is often having to translate a clue to a word, rather than the word itself, especially when he's under stress. He supposes that with SHIELD's downfall, everyone is constantly under stress, and that is probably impeding Fitz's recovery hugely.

"Barton," Loki says at last, moving forward until he is only a foot away from the barrier between them. He points vaguely towards the stairs, and then looks back down to his dictionary. "_Friend_."

Romanov shakes her head, then consults her own half of the book. "Target."

"Barton?" Loki asks in surprise. "Barton is your _target_?"

A flick of pages.

"Yes."

His brain must still be lingering on Fitz's woes, because something about his thought processes strikes Loki. Just because Barton is _a_ target, it doesn't mean he's _the_ target. He's not necessarily the grand prize, he might just be an obstacle on her way to it, or he might be part of an ensemble, a package.

"Coulson?" he asks.

"Target," she says again, her face blank, calm, uncaring.

"Captain?"

"_Target_," she says, this time with more emphasis.

"Hulk?"

Romanov shakes her head at this. Perhaps her masters know how to pick their battles.

"Thor?" He asks this last question carefully, unable to determine what the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is being caused by.

She shrugs, apparently undecided on the matter. Perhaps Thor would be the cherry on top, he doesn't know, but the feeling in his stomach settles, just a little. He doesn't much care for the idea that the people who did this to Romanov have got a bullseye painted on Thor's back, but at least she's being open about it. Perhaps she doesn't see that she has a way out of her cell. Or maybe she's certain that despite their best efforts, she will achieve her ends.

Loki consults his dictionary for a short while, then clumsily puts his next sentence together. "_Barton is your friend_," he tells her.

She repeats his words back at him, though her phrasing is a little different, her pronunciation more fine tuned. She is, apparently, correcting him. He consults the dictionary again, this time attempting a few short sentences with the hope that she will take heed, rather than right his pronunciation.

"_Your masters broke you. Changed you. Manipulated you._"

She raises an eyebrow, and does not consult her dictionary in order to reply. She tosses it onto the camp bed in the corner and folds her arms, looking squarely at Loki, her refusal to believe his accusations resulting in a refusal to communicate.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and Barton descends carefully, balancing a large wooden trunk on his shoulder. He brings it right to the cell barrier and lowers it to the floor, before rubbing the deep welt in his flesh where the edge had been resting. Romanov approaches cautiously, her arms folded as she peers down at the trunk, and Barton spins it around on the ground to show her the brass plaque fixed to the lid.

_N. Romanov _

"It's yours," Barton tells her. "You have one at every major SHIELD hideout. You never know when you'll be dropping by..." He unlocks the lid, and flips it open to reveal a neatly folded pile of clothes, a collection of boots and shoes, and a few other personal belongings such as books, tacky souvenirs, and a large, clear bag of very dated phones.

"What are they for?" Loki asks, pointing towards the bag.

"These?" Barton asks, picking them up. "They're burners. You make a call, get rid of the phone. That way you can't be traced."

"Oh," Loki says plainly, as Barton begins to pull out a selection of clothes for Romanov. Everything he piles in front of the cell is soft and fluid, with no complicated fastenings or anything she could use as a weapon. Barton chucks a pile of underwear on top, then pulls out a small black bag in the shape of a half moon. He unzips it, then removes a handful of bottles that Loki soon realises are shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

"I take it she doesn't know how to make a bomb with these," Barton mutters, and Loki isn't quite sure who the half joke is for. Romanov can't understand him, and he, Loki, is the only other one here. Surely it wouldn't have been for _his_ entertainment?

Barton pulls a towel out of the very bottom of the trunk, and then, his attention caught, plunges his hand back inside. He dislodges a book from underneath an ancient looking marble bust (it's a pity she has no memory, because its presence in her trunk sparks Loki's curiosity) and turns it over in his hands. Loki glances at the cover, and notes that the words are written in cyrillic.

"You want this?" Barton asks, waving the book at Romanov.

She nods slowly, her eyebrows drawn together in the slightest of frowns. She glances towards Loki, and then back to the book, now sitting atop the pile of clothes that Barton has arranged for her.

"Socks," he says suddenly, rifling through the trunk until he finds a pair of thick, knitted socks that will most definitely keep her feet warm. He throws them on the pile, then makes one last check of everything, to ensure that nothing dangerous has made its way in. He must know her well enough to be aware of how easily she can weaponise even the most innocent of items. She can't have earned her reputation through a lack of resourcefulness after all.

"Okay," Barton says at last, pushing the trunk to one side and standing up. He moves back, and Loki follows suit, shifting the cell barrier when they have both retreated an appropriate amount. Romanov takes her things, places them on the bed, and, after extracting a few items of clothing, her toiletries, and her towel, she disappears behind the partition, her departure soon followed by the sound of running water.

"Leave her to it," Loki says, heading for the stairs. Barton hesitates, lingering by the barrier, his arms folded across his chest.

"I don't think - "

"There will be plenty of time to talk, Agent Barton," Loki tells him. "Allow her to make herself at home first."

"_Home_," Barton repeats with a shake of his head. He heads towards the stairs regardless, his boots scuffing on the ground as he drags his feet.

"For the time being," Loki says, and the both of them climb up the steps to rejoin the others on the ground floor.


End file.
